Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

was the same in the first wave. But Richard’s death made for a much more bitter loss over time. She laid a hand gently on Dylan’s forearm through the fine fabric of his new blazer. Dylan did not acknowledge her gesture. It was as if he had not even felt it.
    A prayer began, and Keely murmured along, unable to take comfort in the familiar words. It’s almost over, she thought, and a panicky sensation seemed to take her own breath away. She wasn’t ready for it to be over. She wasn’t ready to return to the house and greet all these people who had come. Lots of people were here to offer comfort. Her two older brothers and their wives had come from the Midwest. She’d known that they would come, even though she wasn’t close to them. People Mark had known for most of his life and clients from his practice had arrived in force. Lucas Weaver, of course, and his wife, Betsy, were seated in the front row. Keely felt vaguely worried about the old couple. This past winter, they had lost their other son, Prentice. Prentice had led a sorry life, his youthful promise deteriorating into an endless cycle of benders and rehabs, with a record of minor scuffles with the law. He suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and was forbidden to drink. His life ended, at the age of forty-two, in a seedy bar, where he’d systematically drained a bottle of vodka and collapsed.
    Betsy, normally so circumspect, had wailed in grief at his funeral. There was no way for a mother to come to terms easily with burying the child she’d carried under her heart, no matter how sorry his life had been. And now this, Keely thought. Mark, who was more of a son to Lucas than his own son had been, his heir apparent, the one whom he had chosen and groomed all these years, was gone. Lucas looked up to see her gazing in his direction and gave her a grim nod.
    Keely had to admit to herself that it was comforting to have people share in your grief. In the crowd, she saw Evelyn Connelly and others she recognized from their neighborhood. Squeezing hands, squinting in the sunlight, were Dan Warner, a widower who lived down the street from them, and his teenaged daughter Nicole. The breeze whipped Nicole’s blond hair across her face. Keely had spoken to Dan a couple of times, when he’d brought them a package and some mail, mistakenly delivered to his house, because of the similarities of their last names and street addresses. Nicole was in two of Dylan’s classes at school. Still, Keely marveled that they would take the time to turn out for a family they hardly knew. People often surprised you with kindness when there was a tragedy in the family. Even Susan Ambler and Jake showed up. And Ingrid, recently recovered from back surgery, had insisted on coming. Keely could imagine how painful it was for Ingrid to be reminded of their last funeral together, when Richard had died.
    The funeral director handed Keely two white roses and helped her to her feet. Part of her wanted to refuse to go, withhold her flower from the grave, have a tantrum like a child. The adult part shuffled forward, lifeless as a mannequin, and, at the close of the benediction at a signal from the funeral director, she placed the flowers gently on the shining coffin. One for her, one for Abby. The sounds of muffled weeping behind her came to her ears on the bright autumn breeze. She gripped Dylan’s hand and allowed herself to be steered, through the maze of headstones, toward the open doors of the waiting limousine.
    When they reached the shining black Cadillac, Dylan scrambled into the backseat, but Keely stood beside the car, accepting the hushed condolences of people who would not be returning to the house. Automatically she brushed cheeks and thanked people for coming before they turned away.
    Lucas Weaver waited at the end of the queue. Keely noticed that he was leaning heavily on his silver-headed walking stick today, which was a sure sign of his exhaustion. Lucas was a diabetic who suffered